Subordinate Clause
by Cryptographic DeLurk
Summary: Deference to authority has its pull. But Tear doesn't have to struggle against it, so long as Luke continues making himself so very unlikeable. First Act Luke/Tear.


**Subordinate Clause**

by _Cryptographic DeLurk_

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AN: The M-rating is for sexual fantasies, and not anything more mutual. It's a rather introspective character study piece. Also, while overwhelmingly Luke/Tear focussed, there is a bit of Tear having unrequited feelings for Legretta.

Also, yes, the title is a syntax pun. That is all. Read & Relax.

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"We're going to the Cheagle Woods!" he says. And anyone with half a brain could figure out that he's an arrogant, pompous fool. He's wasting time trying to prove how infallibly and unquestionably _correct_ he is, when it's obvious he's anything but. Tear should have never let things go this far – she had thought temporarily allowing him to be restrained by Engeve's militia on suspicion of theft would have cured him of the desire to draw attention to himself with suspicious behaviour. But instead Luke had learned nothing, and the Colonel Curtiss had been alerted to their presence. He had watched them with dancing red eyes.

Tear had been careless once when she paid a coach to take them to the wrong capital. She had been careless twice in allowing Luke's arrest. Now it would be three times, with the unscheduled trip to the Cheagle Woods. If Tear were a superstitious person, she would have said that all things that happen in twos will happen in threes. But, superstition or no, it's not really an excuse.

Undoubtedly part of it is that she feels some amount of responsibility to him. He is, after all, only a civilian. A pampered noble's son who, under the best of conditions, would never have left the safe cocoon of his estate. That somebody could spend their whole life tucked safely away in carefree ignorance might strike some as unfair, but Tear might consider it one of the last bastions of hope in Auldrant – that some people did not have to suffer _this_. It's her responsibility to right this wrong the best she can, and return Luke home as unaffected and unquestioned as possible.

But that's not the only reason. He's looking over a list of supplies, and pointing imperiously at a pile of Apple Gels, bartering away his fancy clothes for real weapons and armour. Luke hadn't known how to shop a day ago, but he's taken to it now like he's been doing it all his life. Which Tear supposes he has. The exchange of gald is the only new bit to the equation. The infectious confidence that he won't be denied, that he's not leaving the merchant's side until he gets _exactly_ what he wants – that's simply his reality. When they fought the monsters in the Tataroo Valley, and Luke had pushed her aside as he rushed to gather the gald and left behind as spoils, Tear had assumed he'd known the value of what he was willing to climb over her for. But it turned out that – even with regards to something he considered useless – there was no question in his mind that he was the one that owned it.

"We're going to the Cheagle Woods!" he says. "So shut up already! I decided to go, and that's that!" Luke isn't her superior officer, so she can give him lip. She can pierce him with sharp words, and tell him exactly how delusional he is. But she can't go against him either. She knows that tone, has heard it plenty of times from recalcitrant generals – Grand Maestro Mohs, Major Legretta, General Big Brother, Grandfather... There's no point in arguing when the decision has already been made. She can't. She can't. Does she even want to?

Tear is, in a way, suited for life in the Qliphoth. The crust of the outer lands, the dull purple glow of the miasma and mud, and the quiet reverence to the forces bigger than oneself: the Score, first and foremost. Tear had learned her hymns and trained for battle. She read through the histories and records of those on the surface, enough for an intimate familiarity with the names and words. But even after travelling the Padamiyan and Aberrian continents, these places seemed distant. They were full of wonders that had dulled to her eyes, as if they knew they were not for her. The Selenia flowers were enough. The Selenias, and memories of mother and Major Legretta – they were the only things whose beauty was captured by Yulia's Hymn.

But somehow this isn't true anymore. The world becomes brighter around Luke. He's not beautiful in of himself but, befitting for the light of the sacred flame, he casts everything around him into colour. Simply by being drawn into his pace, by following his orders – there's the shimmer on the river running down to the ocean, the green forest, a campfire under the glistening stars in the sky. There's a rush pulling into battle – fear that he'll be hurt? Fear that Tear will feel better if he does get hurt?

If she hadn't followed his directive and gone to the Cheagle Woods, she would have never gotten to speak to Fon Master Ion. She never would have gotten to see the Cheagles. Mieu wouldn't be accompanying them on the journey. The Cheagles… they're so cute.

 _Attack that enemy! Cast that spell! Make something to eat! Help me! Help me! Pity me!_ Luke commands. Sometimes in words. Sometimes not. And she complies. She gripes and complains sometimes, but she always complies. There's not a question, not a possibility, that she might refuse. Being vicariously careless through him. Taking orders from someone so clearly unworthy. Letting herself magnanimously feel for him and his mysterious amnesia. It feels good. Although she hates that it does.

"Oh dear, a lover's quarrel?" Jade mocks.

Meanwhile, Anise is beside herself trying to figure out how much of a threat Tear is to her marriage plans. Anise seems to sense how unnecessary it would be to challenge or confront Tear directly on the matter. Quite luckily, seeing as the situation is exhausting enough as it is.

Colonel Jade and Fon Master Guardian Anise – they're inappropriate in their insinuations. In what they're reading into her devotion to Luke, and indirectly wishing upon Tear.

Tear doesn't want to be that person.

Major Legretta could shoot the bull's-eye of a target from four hundred paces. She was curt and serious. Strong and beautiful. Tear admired her professionalism, and the utter control over her emotions.

"You have talent, Tear," Major Legretta would say. "I suppose I should expect no less from one who shares Van's blood." It was always about Van.

Tear watched Major Legretta turn away, simply to shoot. Tear didn't watch the target, knowing already that Legretta would hit it. Instead, she watched the nape of Legretta's neck – where the flaxen hairs pulled up away from her skin to be pinned into her hair twist. The nape of Legretta's neck shook slightly against the recoil of the gun, and Tear thought about how unwelcome it would be if she stood up on tiptoe and kissed her there. It was all about Van, after all. How unfair, that Tear's brother had hold of Legretta so completely.

In the same cold and unemotive voice, Legretta would talk about how loving a man with all of one's being was a woman's greatest happiness. Tear had heard similarly upsetting things from others, but somehow it carried more weight when Major Legretta said it with such absoluteness.

In the same cold and unemotive voice, Tear would return: "I still don't trust my brother, and you're his loyal partner. Until my suspicions towards him are cleared, I can't return to you." Tear hoped Legretta wouldn't catch the untoned bitterness and sarcasm laid about the words.

Tear doesn't want to be that person. Or the bigger part of her doesn't, anyway.

Tear delivers her apologies to the Duchess Suzanne, after directives from Luke and Guy to do so. And Luke goes out of his way to not-thank her, but still reassure her that his mother's illness is not her fault. And Tear's revelling in the catharsis of completion and reassurance and praise when she leaves through the manor's front entrance. There's a line of eight maids waiting to show her out, and they don't bow for her the way they do for Luke. But they're wearing that cute, _adorable_ uniform that Tear wishes she could pull off. And something clicks in her head, when she remembers the way Princess Natalia asked if she was a servant girl, to be taken advantage of:

There are all the little ways that Luke had said those things over their journey. _I guess she has a good singing voice, if only she'd keep her mouth shut otherwise. I guess she has a pretty face, if only she weren't so frigid._ A windfall of poison backhanded compliments that signify interest, if nothing less vacuous.

 _Hey, you!_ Luke might say. _Stop being so cold. Come over here._

 _Yes, Master_. Tear would bow stiffly in the maid uniform, before approaching.

Luke's grin would be cocky and self-assured. _I'll warm you up._

And then he'd tell her to get down on her knees. Or bend over the table in the drawing room. Or, no, probably he'd ask her to sit astride him. Yes, that would be best. And she would obey with the kind of chilly professionalism befitting a servant, as he ordered her to touch him here, lick him there, see to all his needs, help him, pity him. She wouldn't warm up for him though. Or maybe she would, if he was convincing enough. If he thrust up into her hips with enough heat and passion, maybe she'd allow herself a couple tiny hums of self-satisfaction. And then, when he was spent, he'd give that entitled half-smile, like he'd won. He'd tell her to button up, pull her stockings back up, and leave. Until he found use for her again tomorrow.

 _Yes, Master._

It's upsetting – these thoughts – but it also doesn't really matter. Tear is in her regular sergeant's uniform as she walks through the halls of Baticul Castle and prepares to give her report to Grand Maestro Mohs. It's easy to walk at a natural pace, with an impassive expression, and not let her fantasies and emotions take over. It comes as naturally to her as breathing, after so much practice. And, likewise, it takes no effort to know that not anyone, and especially not someone as egocentric as Luke, could be at all trusted with her private thoughts and personal attractions.

Still, she's almost relieved by how much of an ass Luke makes of himself on the way to Akzeriuth. There's a mile wide gap between them – distrust and espionage, professionalism and status, a world of politics and responsibilities, and Luke's entanglements with Anise and the Princess. But even without all that. Even stripped down to his core, alone in the dark, without the name and history that might not even be his in the first place – the gap remains. It makes her fantasies seem even more distant and unreal, that they're about this selfish and impetuous child.

And Tear doesn't want to be this person. But she can't help but be a bit glad that Luke makes himself so easy to hate.

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It's careless to hand Luke the knife, when she doesn't have any idea what he plans to do with it. But he asks her with the kind of urgency and absoluteness. _You carry knives on you, right, Tear? Let me borrow one for a minute._ And the part of her that wants to trust that authority reacts.

"Luke!" she protests, when he saws off the hair behind his neck. But what did she expect him to use the knife for? She should consider herself lucky that she hadn't handed him the knife so he might stab himself, and provide blood for his covenant instead.

Still, she realises that Luke is a bit beautiful in of himself, holding that bundle of bright, burning hair. She should be upset at the way he carelessly lets it scatter against the Selenias – ruining her private garden. But the red strands mingle with the shining white, and she finds that hopelessly beautiful too.

"Tear, I want you to watch me from here on out, and then make up your mind," Luke says. "I may not do a good job right away. I may make mistakes. But I'm going to change."

Tear closes her eyes to escape the discomfort of what she's about to do. She bows her head slightly.

"Alright. I'll be watching you."

She opens her eyes and looks up.

"Please," Luke says.

And that's not an order. It's a plea. A request. There's give and space there, and the fear and understanding that she could refuse him. It's something that requires more than Luke's arrogant confidence, and her own deference in response. It requires Tear's confidence as well – the ability to draw the lines and boundaries herself. To stand fast to her own judgement. Not only with Luke, but with Mohs and the rest of the Order as well.

"I will," Tear says. And while it's been easy to remain firm and serious for the sake of others, it takes effort here, to make this promise to herself with the proper gravity: "But don't ever take me for granted. I can give up on you at any time."

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End file.
